Seeker's Shots! (Pride)
by Frank Waters
Summary: Submitted for Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition, Season 4. TEAM: Pride Of Portree. POSITION: Seeker.
1. Not Divine After All?

_**A/N:** This is the Seeker from Pride of Portree writing for QLFC Round 2.  
Subject allotted to my team: Divination  
Seeker's Prompt: Write about someone showing skill or interest in the subject before starting their magical education._

 _Word Count: 1085 (+5 for the title)_

 _Thanks to my team for looking through it._

 _ **Disclaimer:** I have no intentions of making money from this story, so all the recognizable stuff belongs to J.K. Rowling. _

* * *

**Not so Divine After All?**

When baby Lena was born, her mother Rowena—who was still grieving her husband Alfred Ravenclaw's death—couldn't have been happier than her three best friends.

Little Helena was never put down in a crib during the day, as her Uncle Ric, Uncle Zar and Aunt Helga were always fighting among themselves for taking turns to pick her up.

The tiny toddler was the apple of all the four pairs of eyes. She was the first baby born to someone from the four. She was the one who had laid the foundation stone for the new school the four friends had started.

Hogwarts was her castle, she the princess of it.

* * *

Five year old Lena was sitting in her Uncle Zar's lap as the four friends were having breakfast in the 'Great Hall' of the newly constructed school building.

"Congratulations, Ric." Helga was all smiles, as she and Rowena had just come to know that Cecelia Gryffindor was pregnant.

Placing his cup of tea down on the table, Salazar smirked at the sight of the two women chatting excitedly. _Ladies!_

"Uncle Zar!" the little girl sitting in his lap said, pulling his cuff and looking intently at the teacup he had just emptied.

He hoisted the girl on the arm of his chair and flicked her nose. "Yes, princess?"

Pointing a tiny finger at him, she scolded him, "You're hiding—" he sat up abruptly and casted a ' _Silentium bulla'_ spell wordlessly. "—something from Uncle Ric, Aunt 'Elga and Mummy."

"Wha—n—ho— How do you know?" he asked, quickly masking his fear and anxiety with an innocent look.

"This told me," she said, pointing towards the teacup.

"The cup?"

She nodded, her dark curls bouncing up and down.

"How?"

"I see things in the black leaves," she answered obediently. "They tell me things."

 _A seer?_ Salazar wondered. If it were actually so, he would have to keep this knowledge from others as long as he could.

"Who is Uncle Zar's favourite princess?" he asked, steering her away from the conversation before anyone else could notice.

"Meeeeee!" the girl squealed happily.

"So now, Uncle Zar will share a secret with his favorite niece. Will you keep it?" he whispered in her ear.

Helena vigorously nodded her head, and he couldn't help but smile at the way her brown locks bounced as she did so.

"Come, then."

Muttering a quick goodbye to his 'friends', he held her hand and led her to the second floor bathroom. Her grey eyes widened in amazement at the sight of gleaming sinks and shining taps. The childlike innocence she held in her gaze never failed to bring a smile to his lips.

"This room has a hidden door. The door leads to a special room for Uncle Zar's princess when she grows up," he told her, his tone suggesting that he was revealing the biggest truth of his life, which he probably was. "Now, we wouldn't ruin the surprise, right?"

He couldn't help but smile as the girl furiously shook her head. Her _kind of children deserved to learn magic_ , he thought _. Not those who were born amongst filth. Their blood wasn't pure. Their blood was dirtier than mud._

 _Mudbloods_ , he thought wrathfully, not knowing that one day this very term he had just coined would be used to differentiate the 'dirty blooded animals' from the 'pure-blood rulers'.

* * *

Eight year old Helena was reading about the latest invention of the Wizarding World, 'Flying Broomsticks', wondering how a piece of wood could be enchanted to fly just like that.

"What are you doing, Lena?" someone asked. It was a voice she knew all too well.

Without turning around, she replied, "Just reading about 'flying broomsticks', Uncle Zar."

"The same paper Rowena brought the other day?" he questioned, his eyebrows raised.

"Yes," she said, turning to him and nodding her head. Salazar smiled, noticing how her locks were now tied in the neat plaits, and no longer bounced up and down as they used to, a few years back. "Mum said she didn't need it now," she explained.

Before he could say something, the girl went stiff. Her now-taut jaw opened, and the deep, throaty voice that came out next startled him. This wasn't his Lena speaking.

" _Inseparable friends will part, a deep rift will develop,_

 _Three days hence, one of the four shall leave._

 _His Secret Chamber housing a monster inside will remain,_

 _And a path for the darkest sorcerer it shall weave!"_

Helena slumped back in her chair. "I think I'm tired now. I've been reading all day. Good night, Uncle Zar," she whispered, getting onto her feet and moving towards the door.

Salazar did not reply. He was lost in his own thoughts. She was a true Seer, there was no doubt about it. He knew very well that it was him she had talked about at first. And yes, he was going to leave. But would his Secret Chamber really fall into the hands of a Dark Wizard someday?

No, he certainly did not want that. He couldn't take the baby basilisk away with him. But there must be some other way to prevent it falling into the wrong hands.

* * *

 _The Chamber is sealed, only a parselmouth will be able to open it. Only an heir of mine will be able to open it._ He repeated this over and over in his mind, but a nagging fear still remained, lingering at the back of his head. _Would sealing it with parseltongue cause even more damage?_ he wondered.

"No, I shouldn't think of this," he muttered to himself, as he packed his things away.

* * *

Helena couldn't stop crying as she remembered the days she had spent with that man. The man who had gone away, and had left them—had left _her_ behind.

The tea-leaves, the cards—everything she had studied in those few weeks before he left—had been indicating that this will happen, but she had been so sure that Uncle Zar—Salazar Slytherin wouldn't leave.

All those manuscripts on Divination she owned held no interest for her now. Divination wasn't so divine after all—when it couldn't get the one person who had told her about it, back.

She would never look at another cup of tea, another silver orb, another palm, ever again, she promised herself.

But she would keep that one secret of her favorite uncle safe.

One day, she would get her mother's Diadem, and find the path to that 'Chamber of Secrets' she had been waiting for, for years now. _One day..._


	2. The Pride of Ignotus Gryffindor

_**A/N:**_ _This is the Seeker from Pride of Portree writing for QLFC Round 3.  
Subject allotted to my team: Divination  
Prompt: 'Pride'_

 _Word Count: 967 (+5 for the title)_

 _Thanks to my team for looking through it._

 _ **Disclaimer:**_ _I have no intentions of making money from this story, so all the recognizable stuff belongs to J.K. Rowling._

* * *

 **The Pride of Ignotus Gryffindor**

This tale comes from the days of the Wizarding World when the truth of the Three Brothers' Fable was not completely lost. When there were no books to study from, no quills to write with. And so, the legend went down through the generations—mothers narrating the tale to their daughters, fathers to their sons and teachers to their students.

But for one family, the story held more importance than just being a simple legend.

"Come here, Ignotus," Godric called out to his eleven year old son, who was busy writing something in the dirt that lay in their yard, using a small stick.

The little boy marched over, and stood before him in the manner a soldier would stand in front of a Marshall. The green robes he wore fluttered behind him, giving him a majestic appearance.

Godric burst out laughing as he understood why his son was being so uptight. "Excited for tomorrow, aren't you?" he teased.

His son gave him a solemn nod, though his lips were twitching, a smile ready to creep onto his face.

Godric spoke again. "Ig, Hogwarts isn't an _Army_ school. Of course, you will be trained, but for magic."

Finally, the child's face lit up with a smile.

"Do you want to hear a story?" Godric asked, he knew that his son wouldn't refuse. He had loved the stories he told when he was younger.

Ignotus nodded, just as Godric had expected him to, excited to hear a new tale. He couldn't even remember the last time he had heard one from his father. He had loved the stories his father used to narrate to him when he was younger. However, gradually, his father began to have less time for him. As his eyes fell onto the package his father held in his hand, he shot him a questioning look. "What is in there, Father?"

"Ah, that I'll tell you later. You do know that you were named after my mother's grandfather?" As Ignotus nodded, Godric continued. "And you have also heard the tale of the three brothers, yes?"

"The one where they meet _Death_ by the river?" the child asked, visibly shuddering.

"The very same." Taking a deep breath, he continued, "Ignotus Peverell was the third brother." His son's eyes were wide, his mouth agape. Godric couldn't help but remember the time when this truth had been told to him. His son's reaction was amusingly similar to his own.

"I-Ign-notus P-P-Prevell? Th-Third b-brother?" Ignotus Gryffindor stuttered, pointing towards himself, then at his father, and then back again.

"Yes, you are a descendant of the third brother, and you have been named after him." Opening the package he held in his hand, he pulled out the Cloak of Invisibility, and draped it over his son's shoulders. There would, eventually, be a time where he would grow too tall to be completely covered by it. But for now, his small body vanished completely beneath it. "This is the Cloak Death himself gave to him. Caius Peverell was the second person to own it. He passed it on to my mother, and now, I am giving it to you. When the right time comes, you will pass it down to your own heir. This was the pride of Ignotus Peverell. I hope, this will be the pride of Ignotus Gryffindor as well."

As his father patted his shoulder, Ignotus turned around, mumbling a silent _Thank you_. The look of awe still hadn't completely left his face. Back in his room, he cautiously packed the cloak. Many a night since that day, he dreamed of using the cloak to save the world, to keep his father's, Ignotus Peverell's, and his own, pride.

* * *

Gazing into the fire, Godric wondered whether or not he had made the right choice. Was it too early to hand over such a precious possession to his son?

"Don't worry yourself too much, Ric," Cecelia whispered, sitting down beside him. "When your mother handed the cloak over to you, you were the same age as he is now. You performed the duty well.

"Ig is a responsible child. He has your name to uphold, and he loves you far too much to let you down. Mistakes he might make, yes. But then, everyone does that."

Godric shifted his gaze, thinking of how his stubbornness had made Salazar leave. It had been nine years to the day since he had left, and Godric had never heard another word from his best friend—Zar—again.

"But he'll never let us down," Cecelia firmly stated.

"I know," he whispered, his thoughts still lingering on the days of his youth when he and Zar used to hide under the Cloak to get away from their teacher's eyes.

He had told his son to keep up Ignotus Peverell's pride, but had he himself done that?

 _Yes you did_ , a heavenly voice spoke to him, as he slipped into a deep slumber.

* * *

"Bye, mother," Ignotus Gryffindor said to his mother, Cecelia. Standing on his toes, he wiped a stray tear that had escaped her eyes, making her smile.

Cecelia patted his cheek. "Son, don't be too much trouble for your father. And I'm sure you will be sorted into Gryffindor." Sighing, she continued, "You are Ignotus Gryffindor, never forget that. Your father is one of the most well-known living legends. Live up to his name. Bye, Ig!"

Waking away from the carriage, she said to herself, "I have no doubt that you will."

* * *

Sitting in the horse-cart, Ignotus realised that he had to keep up the names of two legendary wizards. Ignotus Peverell and Godric Gryffindor.

 _I will never let them down_ , he promised himself. His thoughts turned to his trunk, where the precious cloak was stored. _I will work hard to keep their pride intact._


	3. The Owl and the Hound

_**A/N:**_ _This is the Seeker from Pride of Portree writing for QLFC Round 4._

 _Creature chosen: Owl_

 _Word Count: 957 (+5 for the title)_

 _Thanks to my team for looking through it._

 _ **Disclaimer:**_ _I have no intentions of making money from this story, so all the recognizable stuff belongs to J.K. Rowling._

* * *

 **The Owl and the Hound**

I sit there on the bronze perch, looking around, my eyes wide. I was brought to this place yesterday, and it is filled with creatures of my kind.

I hoot, and the barn owl sitting in the cage next to me shoots me a dirty glare. I twist my head, trying to look for a familiar or friendly face.

There is none.

I am one of the largest owls here, but I feel small in this new place. I shrink back at every small movement around me. I'm terrified.

I see two men enter the room. One has ragged clothing and a huge scar down his hand. He looks weary, as if he has been up all night. The other has shaggy black hair, and grins like a creature I have had an encounter with before. A dog.

I shiver as one of them looks straight into my eyes. I am not happy in this place, but I do not want to go and live with humans.

"I like that one, Moony," the man with the black hair says, pointing at me. He walks over to me and opens the cage. He holds out a hand, but I ignore it. Uncertainly, he brings a hand to my head, and pats my crest.

I melt under the soft touch. I would never have expected such a strong looking man to treat me with such delicacy.

I change my mind; I will go with this man if he decides to buy me.

"Are you sure, Padfoot?" Moony asks.

Padfoot's grey eyes lock with mine, and he grins, his teeth bared. "Positive."

He extends his hand again, and I hop onto his fingers. I flap my wings, and soar around the room, finally settling on his shoulder.

"How much for this one?" he asks the owner.

"Twenty-five galleons for the owl, ten for the cage, five for treats," he says.

Padfoot pulls out a pouch from his pocket. "I'll take the owl and the treats," he says, handing over some shiny discs to the other man. I wonder if they would taste nice...

Moony, Padfoot and I make our way to the outside; he offers me a treat, which I immediately gobble up, the shiny discs leaving my thoughts.

"Juniper", he says. "I'll name her Juniper."

-oOo-

I let out a hoot as Padfoot makes his way over to me. He grins; I let out another hoot as his fingers stroke my wings.

"Up for another flight, Juniper?" he asks.

He grins as I hoot again. He understands me well, even though I cannot speak like him. I like to work for him.

I extend one of my legs, and he ties a box and a letter around it. It feels a bit heavy but I'm excited to be given a job after sitting idle for an entire day.

"This is for Lily," he says. "It is Harry's birthday. Give him a kiss for me, will you?"

I nibble on his ear, and find my way out of the window and into the night sky.

-oOo-

I tap my beak on the window of the house Padfoot told me Lily, Prongs and Harry live in. Lily hears me, and opens the window.

I settle myself on her shoulder, and she strokes my feathers. She's very gentle; I like her the most out of all of Padfoot's friends.

"Padfoot sent a letter and a gift for Harry, James," she says, and unties the letter and the box.

Prongs enters the room, a grin on his face. He is Padfoot's best friend. "When is he coming," he asks, as Lily reads the letter.

"He can't come," she says and the gentle smile she wore previously turns into a small frown. She looks much better smiling. "He's busy with Order work."

The grin on Prongs' face falters. I know he misses Padfoot. "Here, Juniper," he says, offering me some treats.

I hop onto his shoulder, and nibble his ear as he squirms. I know he is ticklish; I let out a hoot.

"Well aren't you naughty, Juni," Lily says, her smile returning. I love it when she calls me Juni. "You wait here," she says, searching for parchment and a feather (which they call a quill). She finds one, it is similar to the feathers of the moody barn owl in the place Padfoot bought me. She writes on the parchment; her writing is beautiful.

"Is Harry still asleep?" she asks Prongs, without looking up.

"Yeah," says Prongs. "Must be waking up any minute."

A few minutes later, the cries of a baby echo throughout the house. Prongs sighs. "Looks like the little tyke is finally awake."

"Go, check on him," Lily says, giggling. Her laughter has a soothing tone, like a soft waterfall.

Prongs returns, the small boy in his arms. His face is red from his screaming but he seems to be calming down, his face returning to its normal colour. "Should we open the present now?" he says, his voice filled with excitement. He shrinks back as Lily glares at him.

"His birthday is tomorrow, James!" she says. "And why are you so excited for it? Are you a five year old?"

"Uh-well-" he stutters. Then his face lights up with a smile. "Yes!" he says. "It is my son's _first_ birthday tomorrow; of course I'm going to be be excited."

Lily shakes her head at him, as she seals the envelope. She stands up and ties the letter to my leg.

Before I fly away, I hop onto Harry's crib, and peck his forehead. I let out a soft hoot, satisfied that I kissed Harry for Padfoot.

I unfurl my wings and fly away, hoping the best for this amazing family.


	4. The Birth of a Dragon

_**A/N:**_ _This is the Seeker from Pride of Portree writing for QLFC Round 5._

 _Prompt Box:_ Pureblood

 _Setting:_ Malfoy Manor

 _Word Count: 916(+5 for the title)_

 _Thanks to my team for looking through it._

 _ **Disclaimer:**_ _I have no intentions of making money from this story, so all the recognizable stuff belongs to J.K. Rowling._

* * *

 **The Birth of a Dragon**

Lucius Malfoy and Rodolphus Lestrange were sitting in the dining room, sipping wine, when a shriek rang through the Manor. Narcissa Malfoy was screaming.

Without a moment of hesitation, Lucius ran up the stairs and toward his bedroom where his eight and a half-month-pregnant wife had been resting. He had his wand raised and a deadly spell right at his lips, ready to be shot at the person causing pain to his wife. Anyone who saw this might have come to the conclusion that he loved his wife way too much to bear her being in pain.

He blasted the door open, and there she was—alone.

"What happened, Narcissa? Why did you s—" he said, his gaze travelling from her head to her toes; he could sense nothing wrong. His wife turned pale—well, paler than she already was—under his murderous gaze.

"I t-think my w-water b-b-broke," Narcissa said, stuttering almost as badly as her body was shaking.

Lucius blinked once and then blinked again. He regained his senses after a moment's pause, then froze again, his mind whirring. He wondered whether he should run to call a midwife, or whether he should help his wife lay back on the bed.

"What happened, Lucius?" someone asked from the door, panting heavily. He looked up. There was the answer to his mental conflict.

"Rodolphus, floo over to St. Mungo's and call a midwife, fast!" he said, almost too fast for anyone to understand, but his brother-in-law got the point.

"In a minute," he shouted over his back; he was nearly halfway down the staircase.

It would always be a mystery as to why neither of them thought it would be a good idea to use the fireplace in the bedroom.

Narcissa screamed again as he helped her onto the bed. "It's fine, Narcissa," he whispered in her ear, wiping the tears that had leaked down her cheeks.

But his mind knew it was not fine. Narcissa should not have been delivering a baby for another two weeks at the very least. He silently hoped that his first-born would be healthy.

What he did not know was that he would regret not hoping the same for the woman he had been betrothed to, nearly six years back.

Lucius rushed down the staircase to greet the midwife; it would not be appropriate if a guest at the Manor was not treated in the manner a pureblood should greet them. The moment he stepped down the last step of the staircase, the flame from the elegant fireplace burned green, and a plump lady stepped out, followed by his brother-in-law.

"Good evening, Mr. Malfoy," the midwife greeted.

"Good evening," said Lucius, taking her hand in his and planting a chaste kiss on her knuckles.

"Where is the lady?" she asked.

"Narcissa, my wife, is upstairs in the bedroom," he replied. Behind the woman, the fire burned green once again and Bellatrix Lestrange stepped out. Her face held an easily seen-through, fake smile, which Lucius ignored. She had been cold towards her sister ever since the day Narcissa had announced that she was expecting a baby.

The midwife rushed up the stairs, Bellatrix following her in a less-hasty pace. Lucius settled himself down on the couch, his eyes out of focus—as if he was thinking deeply.

He felt a strong hand slap him on the shoulder.

"She'll be fine," said the male Lestrange. He was far more tolerant about the fact that the Malfoys were having a baby, despite the fact that his wife Bellatrix was infertile.

"It isn't Narcissa that I'm worried about," Lucius blurted out. "I'm worried for the Malfoy heir."

Rodolphus gulped, but did not say anything.

Lucius unclasped his hands and folded his arms over his chest. "I hope it is a boy," he said. Rodolphus was saved from answering the statement as another shriek echoed around the huge Malfoy Manor.

The two sat in silence for a while, the only thing disturbing the stillness was the random shouts of pain from the woman upstairs. Nearly an hour later, the midwife came down.

"Congrats, Mr. Malfoy, your wife has given birth to a boy—"

Lucius cut her speech with a shout of joy, and hugged the man at his side. He took out his gold pocket watch and handed it to the midwife.

"But, Mr. Malfoy—" the woman started to speak again, clutching the watch tightly in her hands as if afraid that he would take it away.

"Yes?" he asked, his voice and face both showing his impatience.

"The boy was delivered prematurely. He is healthy, but will always be anemic," she said uncertainly, her gaze fixed on his pale face. It seemed as if she was having second thoughts after coming to the conclusion that Malfoys were generally pale. Nevertheless, she continued, her voice now barely above a whisper, "Your wife won't be able to give birth to another baby."

Lucius stared at her for a full minute, then his lips tugged up into a smile. "I don't need another child," he said, his joyous face a testament to the fact that he did not care at all that his wife could not bear children anymore. "I've got the Malfoy heir." Turning to Rodolphus, he continued, "Let the Prophet know that the purest family in whole of the Britain has retained its purity and continued its legacy. Let the world know about the birth of Draco Lucius Malfoy."


	5. Freedom At Last!

_**A/N:**_ _This is the Seeker from Pride of Portree writing for QLFC Round 6._

 _Prompt: Write about a light character committing the sin of your choice or a dark character demonstrating the countering virtue of your choice._

 _Chosen (Virtue): Patience_

 _Thanks to my team for looking through it._

 _ **Word** **Count:** 2732 (+3 for the title)_

 _ **Disclaimer:**_ _I have no intentions of making money from this story, so all the recognizable stuff belongs to J.K. Rowling._

* * *

 **Freedom At Last!**

"Blessed is he who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed."

― Alexander Pope

* * *

 **[1]**

Your skin stretches painfully as your body grows. The heat is unbearable, and the case around you gets smaller by the minute, but you stay put. You've learnt this the hard way—moving in the ridiculously tiny space hurt a _lot_ , so you decided to wait for the time to get better. Patience pays, and you know that.

You hear the shell around you crack open; excitement bubbles inside your slimy belly. You can smell the nearing freedom at the tip of your tongue.

With a shudder of your body and a final crunch of the hard shell, you're finally free. You're happy—the case had indeed become too small for you. You feel a hard surface against your scales; you want to see what it is. There's a distant memory of dull colours but you can't quite grasp it. It would be better if you could see it, but the heavy lids that hinder your sight refuse to open.

"You're beautiful," you hear someone hiss. _A brethren_ , you think, with a jolt of excitement. Your patience has finally paid—you slither towards the silken voice, wishing you could see its owner. The voice pierces through the thick fog of silence and internal thought you have been living in for so long.

 **[2]**

You hear Salazar speak your language, requesting entrance to the chamber you live in. It has been quite some time since his last visit. The memory of the last time you visited the world outside this chamber has faded from your mind. Yet, you do not want to complain.

He enters, a green strip of cloth tied around his eyes; you feel guilty, for your gaze is deadly. Staring at his face, you find that something's changed. His cheeks have hollowed and his hair is dishevelled. Your mind brings forth the memory of the first time you saw him.

 _The resin that binds your heavy lids has been thinning for the past few days; you know the world of colours will be open to you soon. Your brethren seems to have realised this too._

" _Adera, your eyes will open soon—"_

 _You shudder at the thought. You know what you are—a monster who can kill by just looking at people. Yet, you cannot say you aren't excited._

" _I won't kill," you hiss, desperation clear in your voice. "You know me, brother Salazar_ —" _You writhe in pain as your lids force themselves open. The light around you is dull, yet you are forced to close them._

 _A moment later, you open them again, only to see a strange creature with appendages standing in front of you. The distant memories of the past tell you that it is a human—or rather, a wizard. A green strip of cloth is tied around where its eyes must be._

" _Who are you?"_

" _Salazar," it replies in a hiss._

" _No." Your head is filled with questions. You want to ask how, why, what, but a certain question surfaces. "How do you speak the language of snakes?" You are a snakeling, you know. But you are also the Queen of Snakes. You are not afraid._

" _I'm a Parselmouth, Adera," he says. His face betrays no emotions. As unwilling as you are, you can feel a connection to him in the back of your head, a link you can't get your fangs on._

" _You're my familiar," he says. "My father created you and you respond to my blood."_

 _You bow your head in acceptance._

"I'm going," he says.

"Where?" you ask. The previous twelve years have brought the two of you close to each other. You'd do anything for him. As would he for you.

"Away, Adera," he says. As always, his face betrays nothing. Yet, as you probe into his mind, you feel a whirl of emotions swirling inside—loneliness, betrayal, gloom… and guilt.

You pull your lids over your eyes. "You can look now," you say. You hear him walk closer to you and feel his hand on your snout.

"I shall try, yet I may not return, Queen Adera," he says. "Will you stay?"

"I shall, Lord Salazar. I shall wait for you or for those of your blood."

"I love you, Adera," he says. You can feel the smile on his face and the sadness at their parting. "You have been wonderful company, Queen Adera."

"I have been lucky to have been your familiar, Lord Salazar. You will forever remain in my memories."

"And here we part," he says, and you hear him walk away.

Settling down, you remember the last twelve years. A tiny fraction of your life—yet, perhaps the best.

Henceforth, the wait begins.

 **[3]**

Months turn into years and years turn into decades. Day by day, the hope of Salazar returning wears thin, yet you wait patiently. After a century, you know he won't return, yet you do not want to resign yourself to the fact. You miss him—Salazar, the Slytherin Lord. Now you wait for his blood to call for you.

Patience pays. Patience is a virtue. Patience bears fruit. These are the mantras you repeat day after day, month after month, year after year. No sign of the promised fruit of patience shows but you do not let your resolve fade away. You promised Salazar, and you will wait lest the promise should break.

Meanwhile, you entertain yourself with the voices of the students and teachers that echo down the dungeons and the underground. You're glad Salazar taught you the art of understanding the human-tongue, even though you cannot speak it; it gives you something to occupy yourself with throughout your centuries of solitude. The arrogant ones, the polite ones, the perverted ones, the kind ones, the angry ones—all affect you and leave a print on your character—as listening to them is all you can do.

The initial decades are a pain with the absence of the lavish food Salazar used to bring for you each month. Then you find the solution in little rodents that scurry around the pipes, and at times, your own dead skin.

The school has been quiet for some days now. This doesn't bother you; it happens each year before old students leave the school and new ones arrive. You wait, like always, thinking that someone with Salazar's blood running in their veins will come this year. Till this day, no one has. The time has not lessened your hope; it has only increased your patience.

The day comes when the building above you, whose memory is now just a faded, black-and-white painting in your mind, is filled with chatter once more. A new session has started.

Just then, your tongue catches the whiff of something long forgotten—the blood of Salazar Slytherin. Hope bubbles inside you; you know you'll have to wait until the person is capable of finding the long-forgotten chamber and controlling you. Yet, compared to the centuries you have waited thus far, a few years are nothing to you.

Five years later, the day comes. The Chamber of Secrets—as they call it now—opens, and a boy enters. You turn your face away; you do not know how much the boy knows of you, so you cannot just let it be.

Out of the corner of your irises, you see him enter. You hear his gasp as he sees you. "A Basilisk," he hisses. He knows snake language—he's the true heir of Salazar.

"What can he do for my benefit?" he wonders out loud. You hiss, already taking a disliking to the boy. He has Salazar's blood, but the similarities end there. Over the years, you have come to recognise his voice from a distance and have heard his thoughts . . . his intentions.

" _She._ "

"I'm Tom Riddle," he says.

 _So, Salazar's name got lost somewhere._

"Adera," you hiss. "I've waited for you for years."

"And I you."

 _Your fifteen years are a trifle to me_ , you want to say, but you stay quiet. You wait patiently for him to say something.

"I need you to get rid of the Mudbloods and complete Salazar Slytherin's mission," he speaks.

Your mind whirls through shock, humour, sadness, pity, and finally settles on confusion. "Salazar never meant to kill the Muggle-borns," you say.

"I know what Salazar Slytherin wanted. I'm his heir."

"Lord Slytherin simply didn't want to teach them; he would never kill the innocent," you argue.

You slither over and move behind him. He clenches his tiny fists and turns to you. You shut your eyes.

"Shut up, snake. You're a servant; don't tell me what I have to do."

 _So, patience did bear the fruit, but it turned out to be bitter._

"Yes, master."

 **[4]**

The smell of blood . . . human blood . . . hits you hard as Tom Riddle, or Voldemort, as he calls himself, opens the Chamber again. Your eyes meet a smaller pair of dull, forest green ones, and the next moment, the owner of those eyes falls to the ground, dead.

You see Tom turn and give a fleeting glance to the body. Turning back to you, he smirks.

"Well done, Adera. An amazing job, one without flaws, I must say."

You stare at him, horrified. You never wanted to kill anyone. That was always Tom's wish, yet here you are, the murderer of an innocent school-girl.

Out of the corner of your irises, you see him walk toward the girl. He turns her over with his foot. "A Mudblood," he says, his tone showing the disgust he holds for those born among muggles.

"I will return in a while, snake," he says before marching away.

.

He returns, as he said. His posture is composed, as always, yet you can feel an uncertainty in the back of his mind.

"They know about the Chamber now. They've caught a _criminal_ —" You let out a gasp; he blamed someone else for what you did, "—and now it is too dangerous to let you out."

You know what he means. He is not talking about a day or a week, but about years. You'll be set free again when the people who are alive in the castle right now are gone. A sinking feeling develops in your heart, but there is satisfaction too. At least you will not cause deaths anymore.

"Farewell, Lord Voldemort," you say. He turns away.

 **[5]**

Over the years, the guilt for that girl's death subdues. You aren't sure if you really want to leave the Chamber again, though the thought of freedom is exhilarating. The wait will be a long one, you know, so you let the thought slide.

All too soon, with the start of another year, you feel the presence of Tom Riddle in the castle. It has only been some fifty years, and the memories of him are still fresh in your mind.

The year passes without any sightings of the man but you do not let your patience subside.

The next year, the Chamber of Death opens once more. You spot the human who let you out—a girl this time. She doesn't have Slytherin blood in her. You shouldn't have to respond to her, yet the presence of an unknown kin draws you to her. You have a feeling that Tom Riddle is nearby.

.

Before you can gather what is going on, you hear her orders. You freeze in the place. Sometimes you hate being right. The voice that comes out of her mouth is eerily familiar. You haven't missed that cold tone or the orders that come with it.

You do as you are told. Reluctantly. You listen to his words coming from her mouth and try to understand _how_. And when you have to roam around the school, you slither with deliberate slowness. Your gaze is always fixed on the walls.

After you see the cat turn into stone instead of dying, you get an idea. You try to check around each corner before leaving any of the huge pipes that make a perfect passageway for you, not wanting anyone to catch the full force of your gaze. Somehow, something or other blocks your vision each time.

The relief of having no more death-blames on your conscience is immense. It infuriates her—and him—that none of the victims the girl sets you after dies. You can only hope that no one will. . . .

 **[6]**

You watch as Ginny enters, her eyes unfocused. In her hands is a diary that you recognise well—the diary that once belonged to Tom Riddle.

In the very front of you, Ginny falls to her knees—as if someone is sucking the energy out of her.

A shadow starts forming on her right. In the beginning, it has no form or colour whatsoever, but as it gets more prominent, you find yourself looking at young Tom Riddle. Confusion forms inside your head. It has been fifty years since he left, and even though you haven't shed your skin even once during that period, Tom should at least have his hair greying.

But there he stands, young and arrogant as ever, his body solidifying by the minute.

A rock falling down in the tunnel above catches your attention. The voices that follow are too low for Tom to hear, but you know someone is coming.

An avalanche occurs somewhere in the distance, then silence. And then, footsteps fall into the other chamber. Through the veil that covers part of the doors to the inner chamber, you make out the silhouette of a small boy approaching. Tom moves to the side, but that is unnecessary. The boy has his eyes fixed on the girl that lays sprawled on the floor, and he runs towards her.

You close your eyes, silently praying that the girl is still alive.

"She won't wake up," Tom says.

The other boy—Harry—pleads for help. You can't help but take pity on him. He is too innocent to understand what a monster Tom is. And what you are.

The next moment, you hear Tom open up the Chamber wherein you lay. You do not want to move as you know a look at your eyes will kill the boy, but you are helpless. You are bound to Salazar's blood and you cannot deny orders from his kin.

The fight that follows next is a blur to you. You try resisting the commands from Tom to kill the boy, but to no avail. Finally, you stop thinking and patiently let the 'slave' in you take control.

Harry tries using Parseltongue to control you, not knowing that the orders come only through a mental link. You can feel Tom's delight in watching such a small boy fight you. You want to let go of the link that ties you to Tom but you are bound from a ritual held a millennium ago.

And then, the phoenix you've heard singing so many times earlier flies in, carrying a battered old hat. Tom mocks Harry but you can see the use of both the bird and the hat. You keep this from Tom even as the bird flies in and pecks at your eyes, blinding you. The pain causes you to screech but that's it. Inwardly, you're happy. That monstrous sight of yours is gone.

The fight continues, this time with you using your senses to feel the vibrations on the ground from Harry's steps. The urge to stop the fight and bow to the younger, yet braver and better, boy is getting stronger. He, unlike Tom, is someone you could be proud to follow. But the patience in you is able to keep the urge down—the only promise you ever gave Salazar shall not be broken.

The sound of drawing a sword out of a scabbard catches your attention. You move towards the boy. A few falls and slips later, the sword is plunged into your mouth, straight at the upper palate.

The pain is unbearable, unlike any you've felt before. Through the link, Tom is asking you to move and kill the boy, but the sound is getting farther away. With a final jerk, the centuries-old blood link is broken. You feel a fang sink into something soft as you fall to the ground.

And then you're floating. Dead, but happy.

Your patience has finally paid. You're free of the monster you were bound to follow. Free of the monster _you_ were.

You're free at last.


	6. Withered Before Blooming

_**A/N:**_ _This is the Seeker from Pride of Portree writing for QLFC Round 7._

 _Prompt: Pairing—Remus/Lily_

 _Thanks to my team for looking through it._

 _ **Word Count:**_ _1356 (+3 for the title)_

 _ **Disclaimer:**_ _I have no intentions of making money from this story, so all the recognizable stuff belongs to J.K. Rowling._

* * *

 **Withered Before Blooming**

"Don't touch," cried Alice before Lily could run her fingers through her hair. Truth be told, the redhead, whose hair was now tied up in a bun, was feeling nervous. A certain question kept nagging her in the back of her head: _Would he like what she had planned?_ She tried to remain still as her other best friend, Marlene, applied a coat of mascara to her thick eyelashes.

"Perfect!" Clapping her hands together, Marlene helped Lily to her feet. As she looked at the emerald-eyed girl staring back at her from the mirror, Lily let a small smile grace her lips.

"Just like you said," said Alice, jumping off the bed. "He won't know you've done anything, yet he'll be ready to kiss the ground you walk on."

Marlene picked up the perfume from the table. Handing it over to Lily, she said, "Don't be silly, Alice. He's already head over heels in love with our Gryffindor princess."

Lily could feel the glares of their other two dorm mates boring into the back of her skull from across the room. _Ignore them_ , she told herself. _Don't let them ruin your date_.

Yes, this was her second date, and the biggest surprise was who she was going out with. The memory of the day they had got together in the first place was still fresh in her mind.

* * *

 _Lily walked out of the Great Hall, thinking once again about her sister Petunia. When she had last seen her, the older girl had taunted her to no end about being seventeen and single, all while showing off the gold wristwatch her boyfriend had gifted her._

 _Marlene and Alice rushed over and caught up with her. "Lost in thoughts, Lils?" Alice asked._

 _Without thinking, Lily wrapped her arms around Alice, sobbing hard. "Am I too bad for any boy's liking?"_

 _Marlene joined in the hug, laughing. "No, silly. You are every guy's dream. And considering the fact that a certain raven-haired young man is looking at you like a lost puppy, you certainly won't die single."_

 _Lily wiped the tears off her face and turned to her friend. "James Potter doesn't count!"_

 _Patting her head, Alice said, "Lils, I think you should give him a chance. He is not the 'bighead' he was all those years back. He's changed; you're just too stubborn to notice."_

 _Before Lily could reply, the procession of Snakes, including her old best friend, passed._

" _Sev, who are you taking to Hogsmeade this weekend?" Mulciber asked, intentionally raising his voice to let the three girls hear._

" _No one," Severus grunted._

" _Well, it doesn't matter, does it? We can get a girl anytime we want. But wasn't there a certain—_ red-haired _—girl whose only hope was you?" Avery smirked._

" _Who else would take pity on a Mudblood like her?"_

 _Lily's blood boiled as Severus just shook his head and continued to walk with his cronies. But what else could she have expected from Snivellus Bloody Snape?_

 _Huffing, she started walking to their usual spot by the Black Lake. She could hear her two best friends chatting animatedly behind her._

" _Evans!" she heard someone call. The voice was a familiarly irritating one, so she ignored it._

" _Evans," he said again, and she sucked in a breath. Her mind was already full of not-so-good thoughts, and she didn't need_ him _to add to them. "Don't get so worked up, Evans; I just wanted to ask where I'm posted for patrol tonight. You didn't give out the schedule last night, remember?"_

 _Lily mentally berated herself for assuming the worst. Of course, James was the Head Boy, so he sometimes needed to ask something from the Head Girl, who was her. "Second floor corridors," she replied, giving him a small smile._

" _Thanks," he said, already starting to walk back to his friends. Lily's gaze followed him, landing on a certain brown-haired boy. Before she could stop herself, she hurried after James. She would show them all that she was a girl guys could like._

 _Quite a few people gathered around them to watch the daily show, and James stopped dead in his tracks to look at her._

 _Ignoring him, she turned to Remus. "Would you like to come to Hogsmeade with me?"_

 _James and Sirius stared at her, flabbergasted, as did all their friends. And Remus… His mouth was hanging wide open. Her own friends were looking at her, as if expecting her to laugh and say, 'I fooled you,' any minute. "Would you?" she repeated._

" _F-Fine," Remus stammered._

" _Great. I'll tell you about the plans later." Without sparing anyone a second glance, she walked away, her friends in tow._

" _Lils!" Alice stared at her with wide eyes. "What just happened?"_

" _I just asked a guy out," said Lily, her tone matter-of-fact._

 _Marlene pressed the back of her hand to Lily's forehead. "You don't have a fever, Lily, but that was_ James Potter's best friend _."_

 _She just smiled._

* * *

Lily tapped her fingers on the table, all the while thinking about how she could yell at Remus for being late without spoiling the date. She had never liked people who weren't punctual, but then, she was doing this for herself.

"Hello, Lily." So _finally_ , he had decided to show up. "Ready to go?"

' _You're late_ ,' she wanted to say, but she remained quiet. Nodding, she took the hand he offered her and stood up.

"Y-You look l-lovely," he said. Lily smiled; this was their second date, which she had asked him on after their amazing day together at Hogsmeade. The place she was taking him to called for something comfortable, so here she was, sporting an Indian look in a long top and a long skirt.

She looked at him from head to toe; the Indian attire suited him well. "You don't look so bad yourself," she said with a light smile.

"Let's go, then," he said. He held a hand out to her, which she took. Butterflies were fluttering inside her as she began to steer him to their destination.

The couple was quickly lost in talks, and her feet led the way as if they had a mind of their own. At last, they stopped in front of a painting of a fruit bowl.

Remus looked up at her. "The kitchens?" Lily's smile fell a bit, but she should have known. There wasn't a place in the castle that the Marauders didn't know about. "An amazing idea for a d-date, Lily," he said, his voice soft like the beginning notes of a harp.

"Shall we go in?" she asked. Remus nodded, his head almost a blur.

Lily tickled the pear on the painting, watching as it giggled and turned into a doorknob. Turning the door open, she pulled Remus inside.

Before they could take another step, the House-elves surrounded them, looking up at the couple with smiling faces. "Missus Lily, Master Remus, please take a seat."

The duo took a seat at the small table set in the corner and a House-elf promptly brought them Butterbeers. Bowing, she said, "Miss Evans, should Binny bring the cake you asked me to bake, now?"

"Not just yet, Binny," Lily said, smiling fondly at the Elf.

Remus looked up at the red-haired beauty. "Lily, I meant to tell you this the other day, but I never got a chance. I like you, but I'm not the one for you."

"Because?"

"Because I'm—I'm a—I'm a werewolf," Remus replied.

His face twisted into a shocked expression when she simply smiled. "That should not be a problem."

"But —no—I can't impose my lycanthropy on you. My kind isn't accepted by wizarding society."

"Are you sure there isn't another reason for this? Is the motto 'bros before hoes' getting in the way? Is this because of James?" Lily asked.

Remus lowered his head. "James loves us both too much to sabotage our happiness. He won't say a word if we become a—thing. Just...I'm not the right person for someone as—as beautiful, smart and kind as you."

Tears welled up in her eyes. But before she could say anything, Remus stood up and stormed out of the kitchens.


	7. The United Order of the Phoenix

_**A/N:**_ _This is the Seeker from Pride of Portree writing for QLFC Round 8._

 _Prompt:_ _What (if anything) does the Order of the Phoenix do in response to Voldemort rising to power?_

 _Thanks to my team for looking through it._

 _ **Word Count:**_ _924 (+6 for the title)_

 _ **Disclaimer:**_ _I have no intentions of making money from this story, so all the recognizable stuff belongs to J.K. Rowling._

* * *

 **The United Order of the Phoenix**

Dark Marks were chiseled into the front doors of every other building. They were a clear reminder of what happened to those who opposed the power of the Dark Lord. These times were darker than those before the fall of Voldemort at the hands of a one-year-old Harry Potter.

But Harry Potter was long dead, as were his two best friends. The Order of the Phoenix had fallen. No one had returned alive from Hogwarts after May 2, 1998. Light had lost, and the darkness provided a refuge to the people who wanted to live—Muggles and Wizards alike. The Statute of Secrecy had long been broken.

Fleur was the only Weasley left alive, her pregnancy being the only reason she had not gone to Hogwarts on the Doomsday. Five months later, she had given birth to a beautiful girl christened Victoire at her parents' residence in France. She had taken a Muggle aeroplane there shortly after the final battle—travel by Floo or Portkey could be tracked far too easily, and Apparition had not been a viable option either, given her pregnancy.

But now, after recovering from the pregnancy, she was one livid woman who wanted to seek revenge for her husband's death.

She entered the dining room and found exactly who she was looking for. "Mama, I am returning to Ottery St. Catchpole tomorrow. I am taking ze first flight to London." She held her breath, steeling herself for her mother's reaction. It wasn't what she expected.

"What?" Madame Delacour asked, surprised. After Voldemort's victory, Fleur's mother had lost her fiery protectiveness; it had been replaced with a hard shell of a woman. She was always bracing herself for the loss of another child.

"Victoire should have had her papa." Fleur choked back a sob. She hadn't added on her other thought: _And you shouldn't have to feel so scared all the time._ Her mother patted her arm awkwardly. "Will you take care of Vici for me?"

"Of course, Fleur."

...

Fleur got down from the aeroplane and Apparated to the hill by the Burrow under a Disillusionment Charm. She descended the hill, her wand at ready, to the line of trees that surrounded the Weasleys' old home. What she saw made fresh tears spring to her eyes: the place had been burnt to the ground; even the grass in the garden had been burned black. She wondered how the trees she was hiding behind were still standing.

She turned back and decided to go to Dedalus Diggle's house, the place where Harry's Muggle relatives were staying. They were in hiding, since they were in even more danger now than they had been when their magical relative was alive. Bringing to mind the address from when they had placed the Fidelius Charm, she Apparated over to the house.

Fleur hesitated for a moment, then knocked at the door. A minute later, a tall boy with blond hair and blue eyes opened the door, his eyes widening at the sight of her. She almost groaned; now was not the time for the Veela within her to be a distraction.

"Who is it?" the voice of Diggle called from inside. "How many times have I told you not to open the door, Dudley?"

"'ello, Dedalus. I am Fleur, ze wife of ze late William Weasley. I met you at ze Burrow two days before my wedding, when you nearly dropped ze pie."

Diggle had made his way to the doorway while she was speaking. Once she was finished, he nodded and ushered her in.

"Bad times, these are," he said, tripping on the carpet. Fleur helped him up.

"Where's 'estia?" she asked, already expecting the worst.

Diggle shook his head. "She went out to get the groceries."

Fleur let out a sigh of relief. "Zat's bette—"

"She never returned."

Fleur stared at him, unshed tears forming in both pairs of eyes. Then, she stepped forward and hugged him.

"Where are ze rest of 'arry's relatives?" she asked, gesturing to Dudley.

"Who is it?" the booming voice of Vernon Dursley asked that very moment.

"I'm Fleur. 'arry was a friend, I'm sorry for 'is loss." Needless to say, Fleur was shocked when he merely grunted in reply. She turned back to Diggle. "We need to do something."

"Fleur, you, me, and Dung are the only people still alive from the Order. Anyone who protested was killed. Everyone else gave in."

Fleur turned to Vernon. "We are going to die soon if we do not act now. Can you 'elp?"

Vernon stared at her, eyebrows raised. She could tell that he would have denied her request had it not been for her Veela heritage. She smiled inwardly; it was the first time her powers had done some good.

"I can shoot a rifle," Vernon said. "And Dudley knows wrestling."

"There are thousands of them now, Fleur," Diggle said.

Fleur sighed and stared at the ceiling. "You know, Dedalus, ze main problem is zat we are not united. With ze Muggles, I mean. With Muggle 'elp, and 'elp from my country, we can do better than what we can do with ze wands."

Diggle stared at her. "M-Muggles, Fleur?"

"Why, of course? Zey are suffering, too. The Secrecy is already broken; we might as well use it for our benefit."

And there, with two people from the magical world, and three Muggles, Fleur Weasley started the United Order of the Phoenix, which slowly spread to all corners of Britain and France, to the armies and laymen alike, to fight the Dark Lord.


	8. Taking Help from the Dead

_A/N: This is the Seeker from Pride of Portree writing for QLFC Round 10._

 _Prompt: Myrtle Warren (Ghost)_

 _Thanks to my team for looking through it._

 _Word Count: 955 (+5 for the title)_

 _Disclaimer: I have no intentions of making money from this story, so all the recognizable stuff belongs to J.K. Rowling._

* * *

 **Taking Help from the Dead**

Tom Riddle turned, his robes swirling at the movement, and strolled out of the Headmaster's study.

"Alright, Professor Dumbledore. If, in future, you happen to fall in shortage of professors for this position, remember that I offered to fill the place."

Smirking, he Disillusioned himself and made his way down the stairs. As he approached the entrance of the Ravenclaw common room, he felt an icy presence near him.

"Who is it?"

"Where are you going, Tom? Have you come to see me?" Myrtle floated to stand in front of him and put a hand on his cheek. "Did you miss poor, poor Myrtle?" Her voice was just as grating as he had remembered it to be.

Tom looked down at her. Did she know who was behind her death? Perhaps death made you omnipotent. But he would never know what one experienced after death, would he? After all, he would never die.

"You were the only one who looked for the person who killed me, Tom. If I weren't dead, we could go to Hogsmeade together so I could buy you a drink to thank you," Myrtle purred. "You know, Dumbledore kept my killer here in the castle as the gamekeeper." Her face twisted in distress, and he knew that it was only a matter of time before she started to cry. He hated when she cried.

Tom sighed, trying to grasp any bit of patience he possessed. He didn't have time to hear the musings of a dead teenage girl. But if the dead were omnipotent...

"Myrtle, look, I've not got much time, but I'll come back one day. And then you and I can go to... uh, you know, a Quidditch match."

He breathed a sigh of relief when Myrtle smiled. Then, she said, "But I don't like Quidditch. Maybe we can go to the Trophy Room and look at your Special Award Trophy?"

"Trophy Room it is," Tom said. Agreeing with the ghost was the only way to keep her pacified; when she got upset, she was inconsolable, and Tom knew that he couldn't afford to waste the time it would take to wait it out.

"Wait, I know of another place. We could ask the room to be a beautiful beach, and we could sunbathe there."

"What?" Tom asked. "A beach at Hogwarts?"

Myrtle smiled the superior smile of someone who knew something nobody else did. It frustrated Tom to see that on someone else's face; he was more accustomed to being the one with the knowledge. "No, it is a magical room. It can become anything you ask it to be."

Tom chuckled. He had been thinking of asking if she knew somewhere he could hide the diadem, and here Myrtle had given him an answer without any efforts on his part.

"Can you take me there, Warren?" He knew she would be pleased to know he remembered her last name—girls were strange like that. Little did she know it was because he liked to keep a list of the Muggle filth he had cleared the world of.

"Yes, I can!" Myrtle bounced up and down on the balls of her feet.

"Let's go there together, then," Tom said, and followed Myrtle as she led the way. "I don't have the time to sunbathe today, but you can show me how it works so I'll know for next time. But can you promise to keep this room a secret?"

The ghost beamed at him. From the little he remembered about what she was like at school, she had never been the sort of person people liked to confide in. "Of course. I'll take the secret to my grave," she promised

Oh, how he wanted to remind her that she was already dead. But what use was it, infuriating such a useful source of help? Pity this was a one-time use. But then, she should be honoured—Lord Voldemort was asking for help from a Mudblood, even if she was just a ghost.

When they reached a plain patch of wall on the seventh floor, Myrtle halted. "Think of whatever you want and then pace three times in front of the wall—and Lo! The room will be there."

Tom was not sure if she were telling the truth or just joking, but he did as she suggested, and indeed, a door materialised in front of him.

"Tom... I don't want to go in there this time. I'll wait until we go on the beach date; that way, it will be more special," Myrtle said.

He resisted his urge to smirk. Luck was definitely on his side today; he didn't even have to ask her to remain outside. "Keep a watch for me then, will you?"

"Oh, yes! The house-elves told me of this room—the Come and Go Room. I haven't been there before, but I'm happy you'll get to use it!"

Not paying any attention to her, Tom entered the room, promising himself that he wouldn't step into her bathroom ever again.

Once he had found a good hiding place for the diadem and stowed it away, he returned to where Myrtle was waiting for him.

"I have to go now, Myrtle. Professor Dumbledore does not like me coming back here," he said, deciding that he might as well sow some discord while he was there, "but I will come back some day."

"Oh," her face fell. "You know, if you ever died, while saving the world, we can share the U-bend in my toilet.

 _Saving the world, indeed_ , thought Riddle. He laughed to himself; he would never die. And how ironic it was: he had used a person who had died because of him to gain another step towards immortality.


	9. Death's Prank on Fate

_**A/N:**_ _This is the Seeker from Pride of Portree writing for QLFC Round 11._

 _Prompt: An angsty crack!fic written in Objective/Dramatic 3rd person POV._

 _Thanks to my team for looking through it._

 _ **Word Count:**_ _1482 (+4 for the title)_

 _ **Disclaimer:**_ _I have no intentions of making money from this story, so all the recognizable stuff belongs to J.K. Rowling._

* * *

 **Death's Prank on Fate**

Once upon a time, there was a young girl named Flumen Peverell, who had three brothers. Her parents had decided to send their three sons to a tutor of magic, but, due to the patriarchal society they lived in, they refused to let her accompany them. Their mother packed cooked food, salted meat, and rations for the way, as the master's house was a month's journey away. Before they left, the girl, who was a witch herself, pricked a hole in the bag of flour the oldest brother was carrying, and in the middle of the night, she crept out of the house, following the white trail.

The two elder brothers were daft, and they did not catch the trick, but the third was a clever boy, and saw through it, catching her after their other brothers had settled down to camp for the night.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"Ignotus, do you agree that only boys should be educated, when I have magic within me as well? Is it fair that I do not have the right to hold a wand, let alone train for magic?"

The young boy, Ignotus, shook his head. "I think you should be allowed to learn magic, Flumen, but you have not thought this through. Mother and Father will already be aware of your disappearance, and search parties must be coming this way even as we speak. Even if you do manage to follow us there without them finding you, do you think the master will teach you? Or that Antioch or Cadmus will keep your whereabouts secret from Mother and Father?"

The girl stared at him, eyes wide with fear. "What do I do now?" she asked. "If I go home, Mother will lock me in the store forever!"

"You must go back," Ignotus advised. "If you go back now and apologise, they might be lenient."

Flumen nodded and turned back, Ignotus watching until she disappeared out of his line of sight.

But did she return home? No. Half a mile away, she got off the trail and climbed a tall tree, settling on one of its thick branches.

She sat there for days, neither eating a morsel of food nor drinking a drop of water—just sitting with her eyes closed. She did not notice when the search party led by her father passed through the forest beneath her. She didn't pay any attention to the birds that fluttered around her, or to the snake that coiled around the branch.

Then, a week later, the lack of food and water took its toll, and Flumen breathed her last.

* * *

When Flumen opened her eyes, she found herself standing on a coastline. There was pebbly sand beneath her feet, and the only sound was that of the water and the gentle wind as it made the nearby reeds flutter. The sound of the water running made her painfully aware of her parched mouth, and she ran towards it. She was surprised to find that she still had the strength to move her legs. A beautiful waterfall stood there, cascading down to a river that twisted and turned, running into the horizon. She moved closer to the river but, just as she was putting her hand into the water, a hoarse voice spoke: "Halt! Touch this water, and you shall be doomed. Tell me, why were you so keen to end your life?"

The girl turned and found herself facing a hooded figure. Putting her hands on her hips, she asked, "Who're you?"

"I'm Death," the voice replied.

"And I'm Morgana le Fay!" the girl retorted. Rough-sounding laughter echoed across the river bank. "Don't mess with me; I have three older brothers."

Death laughed again. "You are a funny girl. I am used to people crying about the end of their lives; it has been a long time since I've had a laugh. But really, I _am_ Death. Now tell me, why did you go on a hunger strike?"

Flumen pouted. "I don't believe that you're Death, but I don't suppose it would hurt to tell you anyway. My family thinks that only boys should be taught in magic, even though I'm a witch, not a Squib. It isn't fair that they sent all my brothers away to learn, and all I had to do was help my mother with chores!" Then, looking at where Death's eyes should have been, she said, "You're a man—your parents sent you to learn magic, too, didn't they? Do you have a sister? Did your mother and father allow her to learn magic?"

Death sighed. "You ask too many questions! But I understand your anger on not being allowed to learn. Yes, I'm a man. No, my parent—I have just one: God—did not send me to learn anything. I was made the day Adam and Eve had to die, and I was put to the task of deciding when and where to send people after they complete their lives. I do have a sister, Fate, who was created before me. But I don't think she was sent to learn anything, either. Tell me, do you want to learn magic?"

"Yes!" the girl exclaimed, nodding.

"Then you will learn magic. I will send you to a time when you can learn everything you want, where girls are not restricted to household chores. But there will be some conditions."

"What conditions?"

"First, you will become a part of the Peverell family again, either by birth or by marriage. Second, you will only live for twenty one years—that's what's left of your current life. Third—in that life also, you will give up your life of your own free will."

Flumen dropped her gaze, her brows furrowed in deep thought. Finally, looking up with determined eyes, she said, "I accept."

"So you believe that I'm Death?" Death teased.

"Uh—I—uh—yes?"

Death laughed again in his rough voice. Turning to the waterfall, Death said, "I will show you a glimpse of your new life. Wait to accept until after you've seen it."

The curtain of water shimmered, and a window formed in the middle of it. Images flicked through it like a flipbook of photographs.

 _A red-haired girl playing with a slightly older girl_.

"You and your sister," Death explained.

 _The red-haired girl sitting with a black-haired boy._

 _The girl with tears in her eyes as her sister shrieked at her._

 _The girl beaming as she and the boy sailed across a lake towards a castle._

 _The girl was crying now, another one stood beside her saying, "I can't believe he called you that."_

 _The girl was being twirled around by a boy with messy dark hair and glasses._

 _The girl_ — _now a woman_ — _wearing a white dress and holding a bouquet of flowers in her hand._

 _The woman rocking a baby to sleep._

 _The woman stepping between that baby and a madman._

Flumen looked up at Death with tears in her eyes. "My son will grow up an orphan?"

"He will become the greatest protector of all times, and a great wizard. I myself will protect him once." Death gulped. "He will become m—my m—master."

She smiled through her tears. "I accept."

"Do you want to explore the beach now?" Death asked.

Flumen looked up, smiling cheekily. "Tell me, what will I do until then?"

"Eh, you'll grant me company, of course."

"Sooo," she trailed, twirling a strand of hair around her finger, "you gave me this opportunity because I'm funny and can provide you with good company? I see…"

"What? No!" Death spluttered. Flumen gazed at him, hard. Then: "Well… maybe? And as a prank on my sister, Fate."

"If you're using me for _your_ benefit, then can I ask one thing for myself, too?" she asked.

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "One thing only."

"I want to test my brothers. When they return from their tutor, turn me into a massive river for them to cross. If they die, you'll get three more lives. If they pass by safely, you grant them a boon each, and trick them into death. Either way, make sure they pay for what they did to me." Then she paused. "I think Ignotus is wise enough to get around it, but he was always good to me, so that's fine. But the other two are selfish and stupid, and I want my revenge! And of course… the death of their two sons will be enough of a revenge on my parents." She grinned evilly.

Death removed its hood, and revealed the face of the bespectacled man she would one day be married to stared back at her, hazel eyes full of mischief. She gasped. He pretended to ponder before saying, "I'm not a genie; I do not make a habit of granting wishes to people. But I suppose… for you… I could make an exception just this once."


	10. Whose Underpants?

_**A/N:**_ _This is the Seeker from Pride of Portree writing for QLFC Round 12._

 _Prompt:_ _Write a HUMOROUS story about DUMBLEDORE AND GRINDELWALD_

 _Thanks to my team for looking through it._

 _ **Word Count:**_ _941 (+2 for the title)_

 _ **Disclaimer:**_ _I have no intentions of making money from this story, so all the recognizable stuff belongs to J.K. Rowling._

* * *

 **Whose Underpants?**

Ariana Dumbledore was a disturbed child; tragic events had occurred early in her childhood and the trauma had been too difficult for the small girl to deal with, which was why she was here, sitting all alone in her bedroom, whilst her brothers were out trekking with one of Albus' friends. He had been here quite often during these holidays.

"I'm so bored!" she whined to her stuffed unicorn, who her biggest brother had named Ignotus, but who she preferred to call Iggie. Ignotus was too serious… Allie always liked naming things after people from storybooks and the past. She had been playing with Iggie all day, but even her favourite toy couldn't keep the girl keep her out of the pity-party she was engaged in.

Standing up, she made her way down the stairs and entered the living room. With her mother dead, anyone who might enter the house would assume it was a bachelor pad; there was no sign that a young girl lived here. Dirty laundry had been dumped on the chairs, and mucky shoes were strewn around the carpet. The table was so full of clutter that its once shiny, mahogany surface wasn't even visible. For a long minute, the girl fixed her gaze upon the portrait of her mother and father that hung above the hearth, wishing her daddy was at home and her mummy was alive. But she knew hoping for the impossible was in vain.

Ariana climbed on the top of the old sofa that had sat in the room for as long as she could remember. She stared at the table where things were cluttered, not quite recognising what was out of place. She narrowed her eyes at all of the junk, noticing that a piece of pink cloth was sticking out like a sore thumb.

There were a lot of things that the blonde did not know about her brothers, but one thing she knew for certain was that both Allie and Abe _hated_ pink. Jumping off of the sofa, she carefully edged towards the peculiar fabric; pinching it between her thumb and forefinger, she picked it up, immediately wrinkling her nose when she had worked it free of all the stuff it had been entangled in.

It was a pair of pink underpants!

Ariana squeezed her eyes shut at the horrible sight. Her magic flared wildly, and the clothing flew out of her hands. She gasped, barely noticing as one of the wooden sticks that had been lying on the mantlepiece became airborne as well.

The underpants somehow got themselves attached to the piece of wood—something her brothers called a wand—and they flew out of the door, latching themselves on the top of the statue of Godric Gryffindor in their garden like a flag.

This fact was lost on young Ariana, who was simply satisfied with the knowledge that the horrible thing was gone out of the house. Scrunching up her eyebrows, she wondered what she could do next. Then, looking at the disaster of a living room, she sighed. As the sole female member of the house, the least she could do was to clean the things and place them properly. No one else was going to.

* * *

Albus trotted down the hill, humming a lazy tune, his best mate and brother in tow. Abe might not have been on great terms with him, or with Gellert for that matter, yet they'd had a great day out as guys. Even if they _had_ needed to leave all of their wands at home to make sure they didn't fight. He felt a bit guilty for leaving their only sister at home alone, but it was a small price to pay for a _whole day_ without quarrelling with his brother.

The trio made their way down the lane to their house, when suddenly, Abe started screaming like a banshee.

"WHAT IN THE NAME OF MERLIN'S LEFT ARMPIT IS _THAT_?"

Albus' gaze followed Abe's pointing finger, and it was all he could do to not start screaming. The only difference was that he knew exactly what was hanging there, as well as who it belonged to.

Squinting hard, he noticed something else. "That's my wand! How did it get up there?"

Albus turned sideways, trying hard, yet not entirely managing, to resist meeting Gellert's eye. His wand was sticking out of Gellert's underpants!

Roused by all of the screaming, their neighbours rushed out of their homes with scared looks on their faces. As soon as they saw the statue, however, their concern faded to shock. Now that they knew who the wand belonged to, when Bathilda Bagshot, his mother's old friend, started stating the obvious ("A wand is sticking out of a pair of underpants!"), there was only one question left on everyone's lips.

"Whose underpants?"

"Are they yours, Albus?"

To which Albus hastily replied, "Of course not!"

Aunt Bathilda turned to Aberforth, who shook his head before she open could her mouth to ask anything. "I hate pink, Aunt Bathilda!"

Everyone's eyes turned to the only other male there.

Gellert was staring down at his shoes, looking entirely uncomfortable, when the questions began being fired at him.

All was brought to a stop when Gellert darted forward with surprising agility, and the next second, his lips were connected to that of one Albus Dumbledore. The younger of the two jumped in surprise; what was Gellert thinking? But it had become apparent that hiding something in a house where Ariana Dumbledore lived was totally impossible.

Hence, it was with a smug grin that Gellert faced the crowd, loudly proclaiming, "They're _my_ underpants."


	11. Died with Her

_**A/N:**_ _This is the Seeker from Pride of Portree writing for QLFC Round 13._

 _Prompt: S1R8 / Blacks - Write about Walburga Black._

 _Thanks to my team for looking through it._

 _ **Word Count:**_ _1050 (+3 for the title)_

 _ **Disclaimer:**_ _I have no intentions of making money from this story, so all the recognizable stuff belongs to J.K. Rowling._

* * *

 **Died with Her**

"Yes, Mistress, Kreacher will serve the Mistress!" the elf said as he scuttled over to do his mistress' bidding.

The portrait of Walburga Black sighed. Oh, how she wished she could give him a last order as a servant to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, but she couldn't. A dead elf's head hanging there and no one to speak to was definitely worse than the present situation. If nothing else, she did know how to make the best of what she had.

Only she knew just how much she craved human company. He was a good house-elf, as far as they went, but he was still a poor substitute for actual witches and wizards. All he ever wanted to do was talk about how honoured he was to serve her. His constant devotion did flatter her, but, for a Lady of the House of Black, as she had once been, being stuck with only a snivelling house-elf for companionship had grown rather dull. Neither of them did much good for the other, she knew.

Still, an eternity alone would be even worse. Kreacher kept her from descending too far into loneliness; that was something, at least.

Her mind wandered back to her youngest son. Unlike his unruly older brother, Regulus had been obedient and loyal, always willing to do whatever it took to further the family name. He had never failed to do her proud, and her heart had broken when the tapestry had changed to reflect the news that he had died.

The rumours were that he had gotten too deep into the Dark Lord's circle and something about it had spooked him, but she knew better. That was just the line Dumbledore was selling to try to dissuade others from joining Death Eater ranks.

Had he been telling the truth? It was something she always questioned whenever she was faced with blood traitor propaganda. There had been many a time over the years when it had given her the clarity to see through other people's deceptions.

 _Not true._ She had many faults, but there was one thing she knew for certain: She knew both of her sons like the back of her hand. Just as she knew that Sirius would never have turned his back on that Potter boy, she was certain that Regulus wouldn't have betrayed her. They had both been too proud to betray their values, no matter how different those ideals were.

* * *

If she had thought being alone with Kreacher was bad, having Sirius return home was even worse. Since she and Kreacher were both so removed from the outside world, she hadn't even known he had escaped Azkaban until he showed up at the doorstep with the king of the blood traitors, Albus Bloody Dumbledore. He had moved into the house without even consulting her, as if her opinion were of no importance whatsoever. Oh, how she would love to strangle her good-for-nothing son. Kreacher tried to stand up for her, but he was no match for the irate wizard.

Of course, Sirius had always treated her that way, even when she had been alive. Back then, she would have hexed him the minute he raised his voice to her. But she was locked in this cage forever. She did miss the feeling of flesh-and-bones in her arms.

Sirius' time in Azkaban had left him both physically and mentally scarred. He was noisy and abrasive, and he had spent those first few days ransacking the house until Dumbledore returned to restore everything to its proper state again. Walburga had never imagined she would ever be grateful about something Dumbledore had done, and she hated the feeling of being indebted to him.

So she had shrieked at him to leave. He had—for a time. Then he had returned with even more people.

Not only had the _wrong_ son come back, but, it seemed, her house was to be used as a base for the stinking Order of the Phoenix. _Her ancestral home_! She let out a long wail.

* * *

She heard the door open and then slam shut, tearing her from her thoughts. The noise was too loud to be Kreacher; he liked to mutter to himself but otherwise kept quiet out of respect for her. Deciding to remain silent until she knew who was walking by, Walburga straightened herself up. It was when she heard the umbrella stand crash to the floor that she realised who it was. Cygnus' daughter had been a blood traitor and her offspring was no different, fraternising with half-breeds and blood traitors like her mother.

Not to mention her crudely coloured hair. What sort of a lady turned her hair pink _on purpose_?

She was just going to let this 'Nymphadora' know exactly what she thought of her when she spotted something glinting on her finger. A ring?

For the first time, Walburga didn't scream. Instead, she asked, "Who?"

The girl turned around to face her, a twisted sort of smile on her face. "Remus," she said.

It felt like the painted ground had dropped beneath her feet. Remus was the werewolf… the _half-breed_. Surely she only said his name to spite her? Even she couldn't be foolhardy enough to marry such a monster. He wouldn't just disgrace her; he would endanger her life and those of any offspring they dared to have.

But when she heard the door open again, she saw the werewolf, and he too was wearing a ring.

Her brother's heir was going to have dirty blood.

"Get out!" she screamed. "You are a disgrace to the House of Black!"

Nymphadora didn't even flinch. "It's a good thing I'm a Tonks, then," she said.

"Do not speak that filthy Mudblood's name in front of me," hissed Walburga.

The werewolf, having heard her shout, appeared directly in front of her frame. Walburga couldn't bear to look at him.

"What's the matter, Tonks?" he asked. Did he say that to spite her, or did he really address his own wife by her maiden name?

"How dare you!" she screeched. Either way, it only proved just how uncivilised he was—how unfit he was to be a part of the Black family legacy.

Sometimes, she felt like the House of Black had died with her.


	12. Lex Amoris

_**A/N:**_ _This is the Seeker from Pride of Portree writing for QLFC Finals Round 1._

 _Prompt: An italicized word or phrase for emphasis AND a simile. Pairing: Severus/Lily (OTP of Keeper, CypressWand)_

 _Thanks to my team for looking through it._

 _ **Word Count:**_ _1262 (+2 for the title)_

 _ **Disclaimer:**_ _I have no intentions of making money from this story, so all the recognisable stuff belongs to J.K. Rowling._

* * *

 **Lex Amoris**

Looking at the passing meadows, he sighed, squeezing his eyes shut. The green of the vegetation was far too similar to her eyes. Like everything else in this world, his one true friendship had proven to be temporary. For the first time since his first year at Hogwarts, he was riding the train alone.

He stared at the empty seat in front of him. She would have been there, laughing at his rants about his so-called _friends_. But because he couldn't control his tongue, she had left him — just like his mother had.

The compartment door flew open, and his _friends_ entered, sly smirks on their faces. "Why are you so glum, Sev?" Evan Rosier asked.

Severus stiffened; it felt wrong when anyone other than _her_ called him by a nickname. It was only made worse by the fact that Rosier was so obviously mocking him.

"Ah, has the dark prince fallen in _love_?" asked Regulus Black. "The _cold-hearted_ Snape? The _unfeeling_ Snape?"

Barty Crouch, the last of his _friends_ , thumped his back. "Who did _you_ fall in love with? That long-bearded _Dumbledore_?"

"Shut up!" He cringed when his voice came out as more of a squeak than his patented drawl. They settled down in his compartment, munching on their goodies and talking, but to him, it felt _wrong_.

"I need some air," he said, standing up. His _friends_ made pitying faces, but he knew they'd be laughing behind his back as soon as he left.

He was stalking down the corridor when a compartment door opened. Lily strode out, looking as beautiful as a blooming rose. Then, her eyes fell on him. He started to speak, but her nostrils flared, and she shut the door in his face.

—o—

He stared at the tiny phial of _Amortentia_ in his hand, his blurred vision forcing him to further focus on the decision he was trying to make. One slip of his wrist was all it would take. She would come to him, begging on her knees.

 _Is that what you want?_ he asked himself. _Is it right to take her choice away?_

Had he _ever_ cared about what was right? The morality — or immorality — of an action only bothered him when it came to _her_.

He left the Slytherin common room, a small box of Honeydukes' best chocolates in his hand. Could he do it?

Honestly, he didn't know.

—o—

" _Sev, what are you doing?"_

 _Severus turned around, looking like guilt personified. "N-nothing, Lily."_

 _Her green eyes narrowed, and she advanced towards the goblet he had just poured the potion into. He willed the liquid to change from its current pink back to its original orange._

 _He gritted his teeth in an effort to stop himself cursing; why had he thought Pumpkin Juice, the ingredient most reactive with potions, would be a good idea?_

 _Lily snatched the goblet from his hands and peered into it. Severus' hopefulness was quickly dashed._

 _Lily looked horrified, her deep red brows knitted together. "Severus… you didn't…" She looked up and met his gaze; the expression he wore gave her all the answer she needed. "How could you?" she exclaimed, dropping the goblet, and running from the room._

" _Lily! I'm sorry!"_

He awoke drenched in sweat with the sheets tangled around his thin legs. He heard snickering from beside him.

"Lily! I'm sorry!" mocked a voice from his bedside. Rosier.

Severus bit the inside of his cheek to keep his mouth shut and untangled himself from the sheets so he could leave to get a shower.

—o—

In the Great Hall, he saw her sitting opposite the blasted _Marauders_. She was chatting merrily with Lupin, but her gaze was set on Potter as she nodded along to the conversation. The sight made his blood boil. His resolve, which had shaken after his dream the night before, strengthened.

Hidden inside the pocket of his robes, his fingers curled around the phial of the potion he had brewed. It was strong enough that just one drop would make Lily his. He clenched his wand. One incantation was all it would take to switch the potion with her pumpkin juice. But when those green eyes glanced in his direction, searching for something that Lupin was pointing at, he knew he couldn't do it. His fingers tightened around the phial, and it felt like he was crushing his heart — but the choice was Lily's to make; he didn't have the right to take it away.

—o—

"Today, you will be brewing me something creative. You may consult your books if you wish. The one who brews the best potion will win a tiny phial of this golden potion. Just enough luck for twelve hours!"

Severus tuned Slughorn's voice out. He had enough confidence in his skills that he knew the vial in Slughorn's hand would be his by the end of the lesson. All he needed was to concentrate.

His book was still in the bag — he didn't need it. His mind absorbed information about potions like a sponge soaked water. His hands, as they always did when he was brewing, gained a mind of their own and started preparing his workbench — even as he racked his brain for a creative enough potion to impress Slughorn.

All his senses focused on the bubbling cauldron in front of him; his legs brought him to the supply cupboard without his knowledge, and he picked up the correct ingredients. He went to Slughorn's private stores next. Few students had that privilege, but Severus had won over the eccentric professor years back.

He worked in a daze until, at last, he was adding the final ingredient. His potion was ready. He stared at the liquid bubbling away in his cauldron.

The Draught of Living Death.

It would never be anyone's drink of choice. With one dose, the victim would become a living corpse. A wan smile curled his lips.

The bell rang, and Slughorn went over to each worktable to check the potions. He came to Severus last, because apparently, he too already knew who would win the Felix Felicis.

"Bravo!" Slughorn cried. "A Draught of Living Death! I've never in my whole life seen a potion this perfect from a student. The clear winner is Severus Snape!"

He pressed the tiny phial into Severus' eager hands.

Severus turned to face the class. He could barely suppress his smirk when he saw the Marauders' drooped expressions. From the Slytherin side, he could feel his _friends'_ greedy gazes on him, as if he would share his _luck_ with them.

—o—

He took the smallest sip of the potion from his prized phial. There was no way Lily would say no to him if he asked her out now. He strode in the direction of the Lake where he knew Lily and her friends would be sitting.

He stopped a few metres away from their group. Her eyes turned to him and glazed over. _No insults thrown yet_ , he thought. _So far, so good._

He walked to her, stopping right before her crossed legs. He opened his mouth, the words on his lips, but he couldn't say it. He thought about how, after Lily had rejected him, his choice had been taken away. He thought about how his _friends_ had turned on him. He couldn't do that to her. Even though he hadn't used a potion on _her_ , it still wasn't right.

" _I'm sorry, Lily,_ " he whispered. He saw the understanding in her eyes. Forgiveness. Acceptance. Empathy.

He couldn't bear it. He turned and ran away.

—o—


End file.
